


The Fire and the Flame

by chucks_prophet



Category: Constantine: The Hellblazer (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Friends to Lovers, Heavy Angst, Hell Trauma, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, John Constantine in Love, M/M, Murder, Young John Constantine - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:47:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26262895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: "What's wrong?" he asks, releasing his grip on the back of Chas’s head as if he'd just been burnt."It just occurred to me that he smokes," Chas says, tearing his eyes away to look at John again. "No one would know it was intentional. They'll think he left a smoke too close to the curtains after passing out drunk.”
Relationships: John Constantine/Chas Kramer
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10





	The Fire and the Flame

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been a fan of Hellblazer and Matt Ryan's portrayal for a long while now, but this is my first fic for the fandom. (:

Only when Chas speaks up does John realizes he's literally playing with fire. Releasing his restless thumb from his lighter, he glances over at his friend again. It's clear he's distressed. What isn't clear is a solution that doesn't involve murder. He's already on a short leash with a demon named Nergal.

"Yeah, I'm here, mate," John replies unconvincingly, pocketing his lighter.

"I just can't stand him," Chas continues, wrapping one end of the drawstring on his oversized hoodie around his index finger. It's a mindless act until he tightens his grip with his opposite hand, turning the first knuckle of his finger dark red before he releases it. "My mom only puts up with it because we can't afford to live on our own."

“I know,” John says, allows his eyes to linger. Chas has these eyes the color of whiskey you can't help drink in until you're so dizzy you can't see through your own.

In his mental stupor, John’s focus slips and falls to his lips. Chas encourages this newfound distraction, closing the gap between them to kiss him. He wastes no time deepening the kiss either, so John grips a fistful of Chas's messy brown hair like it's the last sip of whiskey he'll enjoy before he's face to face with his reflection at the bottom of the glass again.

Chas shifts to straddle John. His hands slide from around John's neck to his waist, where they falter, resting over the pocket containing John's lighter. John forces himself to pull back.

"What's wrong?" he asks, releasing his grip on the back of Chas’s head as if _he'd_ just been burnt.

"It just occurred to me that he smokes," Chas says, tearing his eyes away to look at John again. "No one would know it was intentional. They'll think he left a smoke too close to the curtains after passing out drunk.”

There it is: John's reflection. This is what John does; he takes and takes from everyone until he's forced to see himself for who he really is—for _what_ he really is.

Then again, it’s only been a few months since he traded his soul for dark magic. Why _not_ use it for some good before he meets Saint Lucy at the Pearly Gates?

He may have also come to the realization that he loves Chas, and that his reckless decision to sell his soul for dark magic may or may not have been directly influenced by wanting to impress him.

The “okay” that follows slips a little too easy from John’s lips, and before they know it, they’re heading downstairs to the living room, towards the sleeping Hulk of a man. He’s probably got two-hundred pounds on John’s hundred-pounds-soaking-wet stature, and tries to come off as intimidating all the same. For Chas, it works. It’s almost impossible to see the full scope of the man’s eyes while they’re closed—whiskey-colored like his son’s, but not the kind you want to drink—but the small sliver peeking out from underneath his eyelids a result of his slumped position on his prized beer-stained recliner alone incites danger.

He must find confidence somewhere in John’s torrential blue eyes, or his hand on his shoulder, because Chas takes a deep breath that ceases his quaking and nods, and that’s all the confirmation John needs.

John retrieves a lighter and a smoke from his pocket. He lights the cigarette and takes a quick hit. He hesitates only for a moment as he decides to hand the smoke to Chas. Chas takes it from John, drawing a long hit, staring down his father as he does so. Instead of fear and loathing, John sees a newfound confidence in Chas’s expression and, with ease, he flicks the cigarette.

It doesn’t take long for the house to light up orange. They stay as long as the smoke engulfing the house permits them to, watching as the skin on the newly-awoken, panic-stricken face of Chas’s old man drips like ice cream down an aged cone.

"Gotta be honest, I’m a bit disappointed… but not surprised.”

John blinks a few times to adjust to his new surroundings—which doesn’t take long, considering there’s nothing but black around him for miles. He glances down, realizing there’s no lighter in his hand and, as he frantically pats himself down, realizes he’s missing his box of cigarettes too. Not only that, but his powers are stunted when he tries extending his arms to create a rift.

“Oh, I get it,” John says, “can’t burn down a house that’s already on fire. That’s where I am, right?”

“You can put on a false face, John, but I can see you tremble where you stand,” the man in front of him replies. ‘Man’ is simplifying it—the thing in front of John is the result of a three-way between a centipede, a snake, and a dragon with wings as wide as two of John. The only distinction in color from its stark red stature is its glowing yellow eyes. “Apologies, we only met briefly. Allow me to introduce myself: Nergal, Babylonian God of Death.”

John’s mouth drops. He's different from what he remembers. His smirk is so shit-eating it stretches until every thin, slimy, pulsating sinew tears to accommodate it. "John, God of Red Thai Curry. Gotta say, that’s some ego you got on ya for a guy who dragged a little girl to Hell.”

“Astra says ‘hi’.”

John suppresses the rage bubbling up inside of him by biting the inside of his cheek. "If I'd known Hell was this cold, I'd have brought a thicker jacket."

"Everyone's Hell is different. Yours is cold to match your naturally nihilistic black soul."

"Stop it, Nergal; you're flattering my punk rock aesthetic."

"You're afraid," Nergal says, eyes like a cat's widening at the new yarn he's discovered with every step closer towards him. "Petrified, in fact. Not of me—of him. That boy."

Now he's right under John's nose. He smells like smoke and rubbing alcohol. "Why?” he continues, “Why are you afraid of a mortal? Unless... _oh my_."

John's nose twitches from more than the smell of the winged, fleshy demon.

Nergal laughs—a sickly, wet thing that takes twenty years to acquire as a chain-smoker. "You really think he can fill that emptiness in your soul? Nothing can fill that big of a hole, John. But hey, at least you won't be alone when I drag you back down here. See you soon."

“John? John.”

Chas’s insistent hand on his shoulder brings John back to the present. “Hey, we have to move.”

John nods before they both disappear through the back door and into the night.

🔥

Later that night, as they’re hiding out in the backseat of John’s car—Chas sprawled out against John’s naked length like a body pillow—Chas asks in a quiet voice, "John, how is it you've got me wrapped around your finger?"

"A good magician never reveals his secrets,” John grits out through the invisible flames licking him.

One day, Hell will have him. But tonight, the only thing he’s succumbing to is the warm embrace of the one thing he gets to call his.


End file.
